


a death that sticks

by bumblefumble



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dad!Schlatt if you squint, Gen, Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Panic Attacks, Post-Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Trauma, really hard, the character death is both canon and temporary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28532643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblefumble/pseuds/bumblefumble
Summary: Tubbo takes a little extra time leaving Manberg after the festival.---based on @technochad's headcanon on Tumblr:"it's headcanon of mine that when you lose a canon death your body doesn't disappear after you die. tubbo probably did end up cleaning his own guts off the podium. quackity's body is still in that tunnel after he was hacked apart with a netherite pickaxe. they had to take wilbur's away to be buried after the war."
Comments: 7
Kudos: 67





	a death that sticks

**Author's Note:**

> This  is the link to the original post. Please enjoy!

“And with that in mind, I’d like to thank everyone for coming to this wonderful event!” Tubbo’s cheery voice resounds through the parade field as he finishes his speech. His hands are clammy, he’s never been good under pressure, much less the pressure of imminent explosion. 

Then he hears Schlatt’s warm, ominous chuckle.

“Is—is there something wrong, Schlatt?” He glances over at the man on his left. He can’t know about— 

He can’t know.

“No, it’s just—I was just thinking about it, Tubbo. We like to have fun.” He chuckles again, smiling darkly, his eyes surprisingly sharp.

“Yeah, we like to have fun,” Tubbo replies cheerfully. Don’t give away the game.

“You got anything left in the speech?”

“Uh, no!” He remembers the key phrase. “On that note, let the festival begin!” Hopefully Wilbur could hear it, over the building. The microphone wasn’t picking up his voice properly, but he’s a loud speaker. 

Schlatt sighs and walks over to the microphone. Schlatt looms over him. “Alright, alright. Hey Quackity, help me do something real quick” The two men start placing… something. Concrete? Why is he placing concrete?

“Schlatt, what are you—what are you doing?” Schlatt doesn’t say anything. Neither does the crowd. The area is dead silent except for Tubbo’s rapidly increasing breaths. “Schlatt.” The man says nothing. “Schlatt? Schlatt I can’t get out”

“Tubbo, I’ll cut to the fucking chase,” Schlatt suddenly says.

“What?”

“And it really sucks for me to have to say this right here in front of everybody. I mean,” He chuckles again and looks over the crowd. “It’s kind of awkward.”

“Schlatt, I can’t get out”

Schlatt ignores him. “Tubbo, Tubbo.” He pauses. “I know what you’ve been up to”

Suddenly Tubbo’s head is full of fuzz. He feels cold sweat drip down his temple. “What have I been up to? W-what are you talking about?” He laughs nervously.

“What have I been up to! He says!” Schlatt laughs. It’s no longer a small chuckle, but instead it booms across the field. “What have I been up to?” He spins to face Tubbo and looks him directly in the eyes. “You’ve been conspiring!”

Tubbo’s never considered himself claustrophobic, but he  _ really _ wants to get out of this box. “I’m actually trapped in here, Schlatt.”

The other man continues without a missed beat. “With the idiots! With the idiots—with the  _ tyrants  _ that we kicked out of this great country  _ years ago _ . Tubbo, I don’t know if you know this, but treason isn’t exactly a respectable thing around here. I know what you’ve been doing. It  _ all _ adds up, buddy. The fucking  _ tunnels _ , your  _ absence _ from great events! I mean, you walked off in the middle of this one! You walked off in the middle of this one, Tubbo. Don’t try and tell me that you’ve done nothing wrong. Because everybody sees it. I’ve seen it with my own two fucking eyes, what you’ve been doing.” He takes a deep breath. “You know what happens to traitors, Tubbo?”

“No?” Yes. The answer is yes.

“Nothing good,” Quackity nods in agreement. “Hey, Technoblade,” Schlatt continues, “you wanna come up here for a second?”

“Um,” Tubbo’s voice catches in his throat. His head is still filled with fuzz, like what’s happening isn’t real. He looks up on the rooftop and catches Tommy’s eye.  _ Help. _ He thinks with all his might. Wilbur told him Technoblade was on their side. He was on  _ their _ side. So he wouldn’t hurt him. Right?

“Let’s just send a message real quick. We like to send messages around here,” His eyes light up for a second. “Now that we’ve got Tubbo in that, oh in that  _ Tubbox _ .”

Quackity laughs like it’s actually funny. Tubbo laughs nervously.

“Hey Mr President,” Technoblade says. He sounds like it’s just another evening.

Quackity’s voice pipes up. “You can stand here, Technoblade, you can stand here,” He gestures to a small ledge in front of the box Tubbo is trapped in. “Look him straight in the eyes.” The smile on his face is slightly crazed.

Schlatt breaks a few blocks. Is he letting him out? “Schlatt, I uh—I still can’t get out.” He says nothing, it’s just now Schlatt can see him better. It’s always a show, isn’t it?

“Tubbo, as the enemy of the state, and as perpetrator of these awful, awful deeds—Technoblade, please, please, if you would. If you would be so kind.” He looks from Technoblade to Tubbo and back again, the grin on his face dripping with the same malice as when he exiled Wilbur and Tommy. It looks exactly the same.

“What are you asking, Schlatt?” Technoblade’s deep voice is unreadable to him. It’s fairly obvious what Schlatt wants. He’s stalling, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?

“Take care of him!” Schlatt says.

“You want me to get him some breakfast?” Techno scoffs. “What do you mean by ‘’take care of him?’’”

“Maybe show him the nice five-course dinner, y’know?” His eyes glance to the sword hanging on his belt, and the crossbow slung over his back.

“Alright. I’ll take him now. Over there?” Techno gestures at a food stall just to the side of the parade field.

“Are you hungry, Tubbo?” Quackity juts in, mocking him.

Tubbo is scared. What if Technoblade isn’t on his side? “I’m not—I’m not hungry,”

“Tubbo, you’re very hungry, let’s go to the restaurant” Technoblade says. Did he hear a little bit of desperation in his voice? Techno is looking at the fencepost that is blocking him in.

Schlatt snaps his fingers. His smile is gone. “Technoblade, we’re running on a tight schedule here, so if you could just—”

“What do you want out of me, Mr President?”   


“Listen, I only call you in for special favors. I mean, we go way back. And this man, he needs a special favor. Techno, I need you to take him out.” The two men are facing each other now, fighting a battle of words no one else sees. 

“To dinner? Schlatt, if you need something from me I’m going to need you to be more specific,” Techno says, idly scratching at the grip of his sword. “You know how I function.”

“Fine. You’re not going to take him out to dinner, you’re gonna kill him.” 

Tubbo’s heart drops. He looks up at Tommy for reassurance. He’s too far away for his face to be readable.

“Oh! Now I get it.” Technoblade’s entire demeanor shifts. It seems like he’s standing up taller. He unslings his crossbow and loads it with a firework. With a firework. Tubbo made tons of fireworks, all for the festival! Is he using one of those? And, wow, he’s really close. Schlatt is saying something.

“Right now! On this fucking stage! And make it hurt! There are no fucking traitors in my country! There are no fucking traitors in my goddamn country! Are you kidding me? My right hand man.” He turns from Technoblade to the box. “Tubbo, I’d rather rule  _ alone _ , than with you. You fucking—I can’t even—” He turns back around, “You brought this upon yourself.”

Tubbo shrinks back. He’s shaking. He thinks of Tommy. Tommy wouldn’t be scared. Tommy and Technoblade, they’re friends, right? Wilbur said Techno wouldn’t hurt him. He wouldn’t hurt him.

“Schlatt, Schlatt are you sure?” Quackity starts, “We have him trapped, he’s jailed. I think that’s enough for violating the constitution.”

Thank you Quackity, thank you Quackity, thank you—

“It’s not enough.”

“Schlatt, are you sure? He’s jailed!” Quackity is not a brave man, when it comes to matters involving Schlatt. Tubbo knows it won’t work, but… he appreciates his effort.

“Technoblade?” Schlatt murmurs expectantly.

“Technoblade—” Tubbo says. His voice cracks. His breathing speeds up again. He can’t feel his head; he can’t see the crowd. “Technoblade?”

“Are you gonna do it? Are you gonna send a message? Are you gonna make an example? Of this  _ weak _ -”

Technoblade throws a punch at Tubbo. He can suddenly feel his head again. He popped him in the nose. He clutches his face, and feels blood running into his mouth. He can’t breath through his nose now. He says nothing, but a small whine escapes him as he stares at the ground.  _ Wilbur said Techno was on their side. Wilbur said Techno was on their side. Techno won’t hurt him, this is a ruse. It has to be a bluff. _

“Oh, softening him up! He’s softening him up!” Tubbo is struck with the image of Schlatt watching a boxing match. He was never good at boxing. He had beaten Fundy earlier, but that was only because Fundy was even worse at sports than he was. He was never good at American football, either. That was Schlatt’s favorite sport. 

Technoblade coughs.

“I—What’s—I can’t—” Tubbo is desperately trying to come up with an excuse— _ any _ excuse—why they should just let him out. Let him go home. Even if he spent the rest of his days in jail that would be preferable. Schlatt would forget eventually, in some drunken stupor. 

“Tubbo,” Techno says softly.

“Yeah?” He looks up, through the sight of the crossbow and meets Technoblade’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it as painless as possible.”

* * *

The last time Tubbo had felt this peaceful was after Sapnap had killed him in the Final Control Room. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on, but it was a memory that stuck with him nevertheless. 

The process of being reconstructed after such a notable death was relaxing. It was also time consuming. Dying when you accidently fall down a tower or when a creeper sneaks up on you is instant. A minor frustration. But when it actually matters, well, a new body has to be created. 

The first thing Tubbo notices when he wakes up in his bed is the ringing in his ears. It wasn’t a normal ringing, like standing too close to Schlatt—to someone—speaking into a microphone, but more like the ambient ring of a beacon. The second thing he notices is the tingling numbness across his face, his chest, and his hands. He rubs his face and can’t feel it. It’s like those nerves had fallen asleep. He wasn’t too concerned: the same thing had happened when he recovered from the control room. The stab wound was completely gone except for a lingering numbness that disappeared before the day had ended. He sits up and throws his legs over the side of his bed. The blood rushes from his head and his vision goes spotty. He stands up and, oh, there’s the ground.

When he finally has the ability to walk without tottering, he makes his way to the front of his home. He sees a new chest. Opening it, he pulls out a signed book entitled  _ Warning _ .

_ Tubbo, _

_ First thing’s first, you caused this mess, you will clean it up. You are the cause of your own death, Tubbo. There’s no one else to blame but yourself. You chose to work with those traitors. No one made you do that. _

_ I want it looking as clean and shiny as it was when it was first built. I want to be able to see my fucking reflection in those stones. _

_ Schlatt _

* * *

When Tubbo returns to the parade field, he immediately notices the smelll. He looks up at the rooftop where Tommy and Wilbur had been standing, and sees nothing but the debris-covered building. The parade field itself is empty. Merely scorched with gunpowder and spattered with blood.  _ Technoblade killing the rest of Manberg wasn’t notable enough, I guess _ . 

He looks up to see if his body is alone or joined with others. The yellow concrete is discolored to be entirely black and he can also see spatters of red. He feels light-headed. When did he stop breathing?

Tubbo looks away and gets to work. He puts on his thick rubber gloves and starts scrubbing at the scorch marks on the stone tiles.

As he makes his way through the aisles of seats, Tubbo takes a shaky breath. He looks at the banners and decorations. The decorations  _ he _ had made. The festival was supposed to be fun! It was supposed to be a celebration of democracy and Manberg and Schlatt had  _ liked it _ . He said he did—he sounded genuine, not like he had been mocking him. Maybe he was just a good liar, maybe everything he ever said to him was manipulation—

Deep breath.  _ I can’t break down in the middle of this _ .

“ _ Absolutely spotless, _ ” Schlatt had written. As if nothing had even happened. Tubbo continues to scrub at the black scorch marks and red blood spatters staining the stones. The repetitive motion is… soothing, but not as distracting as he’d like. His hands and face still feel numb and cold and—

He really wants to see Tommy, actually. He hopes that the other boy is okay, wherever he is. His eyes start to well up as his thoughts dwell to the day previous. This isn’t even the hard part and he already feels like shit. 

He could take a break. Try and find Nikki. But, Nikki’s not exactly secretive about her disdain for Schlatt and what if he catches him with Nikki and decides to do something worse. What’s worse than a death that sticks? Would Schlatt try to actually kill him? He’s never met someone who had ended up dying… permanently. 

Tubbo moves to start fixing a stall that had been burned by one of Techno’s rockets. It takes significantly less time than he had hoped. He really doesn’t want to go to the podium. He  _ really _ doesn’t want to go to the podium. He  _ really really really really- _

When had he started crying?

He stumbles backwards and falls into a heap on the ground. He tries to take a deep breath, but it makes his chest feel funny, so he tries to take another, and then another, and then another, and soon he’s just plain hyperventilating and—

It had  _ hurt _ .

He didn’t register it at the time, through the chaos and yelling and the utter fear he felt when Schlatt had called him out in front of the entire nation. But he remembered the warmth that just got  _ too hot _ to the point where it felt like  _ ice _ . He felt his skin tear, but he couldn’t feel the pain because the rocket had burned all of his nerves. It felt like a baseball player took a ready, strong swing just below his jaw. It cracked his neck back in a way that really  _ didn’t _ feel good. Or natural. Or survivable. He fell backwards, tweaking his wrist and elbow in the tight enclosure he was stuck in. He couldn’t breathe. He laid there for—for it felt like  _ hours _ and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t  _ breathe.  _ He was sitting in L’manberg—in Manberg, it’s Manberg, Schlatt will be mad if you call it anything else—and he couldn’t  _ breathe _ .

Through the static of his vision, a bee flies by. Tubbo takes a truly deep breath and he’s back. He’s shaking and his face is wet, but he’s breathing, and he can move his legs, and he’s not even in a small space. 

He really doesn’t want to go up to the podium.

What if he just, doesn’t? And as soon as the thought occurs, he knows it won’t work. If he tries to tell Schlatt that the idea of going up there makes him physically want to vomit, the President would just laugh and tell him to  _ suck it up, buttercup _ . And who’s to say Schlatt wouldn’t just make him do something worse? Who’s to say he wouldn’t just lock him up in some tiny cell somewhere? Schlatt sees him as a traitor. Tubbo’s not dumb, he  _ knows _ that. 

Asking Schlatt for another task is simply not an option.

He collects the tools he needs. The cleaning supplies he used on the parade field, the pickaxe to remove the concrete, and a stretcher to remove the bodies.

He steels himself, and starts creeping up the steps of the podium. The time he’d taken to clean the stones had made him forget the smell of violence. It was stronger here. The iron-y tang of blood, the burning smell of gunpowder, and the bitter smell of burnt flesh combine to create a very distinct smell. Tubbo takes a deep breath before dragging the stretcher towards the throne. Towards Schlatt, Quackity, and—and himself.

Towards the bodies.

Seeing Schlatt’s dead face is interesting. The right side of Schlatt’s—the corpse’s—face is covered in red blisters from the heat of the firework. The rest of his face is covered in small shrapnel wounds. His hair is singed and his expression is almost peaceful. Tubbo throws him roughly on the stretcher. He pointedly does not look at the concrete box when he goes over to Quackity. His body looks almost identical to Schlatt’s. Blistering burns cover the left side of his face, and shrapnel wounds cover the rest. Onto the stretcher. 

_ Deep breath _ .

He had snagged a blanket from someone’s bed. He wasn’t sure who’s. He’d repay them if they noticed, but he needed a cover. He couldn’t—he  _ couldn’t _ look at his own dead face.  _ It must be bad for your psyche, or something _ . He chuckles. Without looking, he throws the blanket over the body and misses. The blanket hits the corpse square in the chest. He can still see the burns and exploded remains of his face. He can’t stop looking. The burned flesh is leathery and not the pale color he’s come to expect when looking in the mirror. Where his hair isn’t burned off, it’s crusted in red. His eyes are shut from flinching and he’s honestly glad he can’t see the vacancy.

He thought it would be a lot worse to be up here, but he really just doesn’t feel anything. Had he worked himself up over nothing?

He reaches in the box to pull out his body ( _ you aren’t stuck, you aren’t stuck, you aren’t stuck _ ) and places it on the stretcher with the other two.

Hard part done.

He walks the stretcher to the crematorium and pushes them in the lava. 

Tubbo returns to the podium and starts scrubbing the blackstone surfaces. The gunpowder scorch marks aren’t visible, but the blood leaves a slight discoloration. If Tubbo never smells the scent of a bleach-based disinfectant again, it’ll be too soon. 

He turns his attention to the concrete box. Formerly yellow, the outward facing sides are cracked and blackened from the firework explosion. The inside faces are spattered with his own blood. A puddle of it is congealing on the seat of the throne. He wants to vomit. He chips away at the concrete, dumps it in a trash bag, and starts mopping up the blood.

As the sun begins to set, the parade field and the podium look, well, spotless. Never say that Tubbo doesn’t do good work. He spots Schlatt through the window of the White House holding a drink. 

Might as well tell him he’s finished up before heading home.

He knocks on the door before entering. “Schlatt?”

Schlatt stops his prancing and his eyes slide over Tubbo before locking onto the boy. “Wow. You smell like shit.”

Tubbo bristles but moves on, “I finished cleaning the festival space.”

“Oh, hmm. Good job.” The President rolls his eyes and takes another swig from his bottle. His voice is gravely and low. “Did you take down those god awful decorations too?”

“Uh, n-no. Those—I thought you liked them?” He had  _ said _ he liked them. He had  _ said _ he was proud of Tubbo for the work he had put in for the festival.

“Tubbo,” Schlatt says warningly, “those decorations were made by a traitor. Take them down.”

“Yes, Schlatt,” Tubbo says.

“Oh, and Tubbo?”

Tubbo turns, halfway out the door.

“Don’t test your luck”

By the time the sun had risen in the morning, Tubbo was in Pogtopia.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @ capricious-chirp 


End file.
